They banned me from the family reunion like I was a stain they needed to scrub out. And now I’m sitting in a rental car, watching my mother lead the pack up the driveway of the beach house she thinks is a lucky rental. She enters the code I set myself. They haul in coolers and confidence, oblivious that the deed has my LLC on it. I’ll let them settle in for twenty minutes before I remind them who really holds the keys.
My name is Skyla Morales, and right now I am invisible. I am sitting in the driver’s seat of a rented silver sedan with tinted windows, parked just far enough away to be mistaken for a neighbor’s guest but close enough to see the sweat glistening on my mother’s forehead. The engine is off. The air conditioning died five minutes ago, and the Georgia heat is already starting to press against the glass like a heavy, wet blanket. It’s ninety degrees in Seabrook Cove today, with humidity that makes the air feel thick enough to drink.
I don’t mind the heat. The heat keeps me focused. It reminds me that I am real, even if the people currently invading my property believe I have ceased to exist.
Through the windshield, I watch the caravan arrive. It’s a spectacle of entitlement. Three large SUVs pull into the driveway of the pristine three-story beach house that sits proudly against the backdrop of the Atlantic Ocean. The house is a beauty, if I do say so myself. I spent six months renovating it, choosing every slat of the siding and every tile in the master bath. It stands tall, painted a soft, dusty blue that mimics the twilight sky, with white trim that gleams under the midday sun.
It looks expensive. It looks exclusive. It looks like exactly the kind of place my family feels they deserve, despite never having worked hard enough to earn it.
My mother, Linda, is the first to exit the lead vehicle. She steps onto the crushed-shell driveway wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a flowing floral caftan that screams vacation matriarch. She claps her hands, shouting directions at my father and my brother, Kyle, who are dragging coolers out of the trunk. Even from here with my windows rolled up, I can imagine her voice. It’s a frequency that cuts through glass. She points at the stairs leading up to the main deck, her fingers stabbing the air, directing traffic in a driveway she does not own for a house she did not rent.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
